


Everlasting

by cypress_tree



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Immortality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:38:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cypress_tree/pseuds/cypress_tree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most lives end.  A <i>Tuck Everlasting</i> fusion, in which the Holmes brothers have lived for a very, very long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Two lovely people have made covers for this fic. Thank you both so much!
> 
> [cover by devinleighbee](http://devinleighbee.tumblr.com/post/34308093982)  
> [cover by moonblossom](http://archiveofourown.org/works/699645)  
>  
> 
> A Chinese translation of this fic is available [here,](http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=3203&extra=page%3D1) on 221D. Thank you again, Rosemarry!

_"You know we'll have to leave soon."_

_Sherlock stared out the window, pointedly ignoring his brother's voice in favour of studying the pattern of lichen growing on the windowsill._

_"People will begin to talk. It would be wise to be gone by the end of the month. I suggest you start thinking about packing your things."_

_Sherlock turned away from the window and stretched his legs out in front of him. "I dreamt last night that you died in a horrific plane crash," he said._

_Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Sherlock." He looked down at his brother with a frown. "Did you hear what I just said?"_

_"Yes, I heard you. I'll think about it."_

_Mycroft accepted that as the most positive response he would be getting from the conversation. He sighed and sat down on the opposite end of the sofa._

_"Were you on the plane, as well?" he asked._

_"What?"_

_"In your dream. Were you on the plane with me?"_

_Sherlock didn't answer, just looked back outside the window for a moment before standing up abruptly._

_"Dreams are nonsensical," he said. "I'd rather I stopped dreaming altogether than dream about things that are impossible. " He plucked his violin from its case in the hallway before walking out the front door, letting it slam behind him as he left._

 

\---

 

They said that the fresh air would be good for him. That the noises and crowds and suffocation of London were no help to a man who suffered nightmares of explosions and gunshots.

John stared out the bedroom window of his new home—a tiny cottage owned by his sister, located in the middle of the woods about a half-mile from town. She’d said that, because the town was on a hill, there were places on the outskirts where you could see all of London sprawled out beneath them. John wasn’t sure if seeing it would be a comfort or a tease. He pulled his identity tags out from under his shirt and turned them over in his hand.

There was a sudden, loud thud from the kitchen, where Harry was busy sifting through the cabinets.

“I found the kettle!” she called, shortly. “John?”

“Coming. Just a moment.” John slid his tags back under the neck of his shirt, grabbed his cane from where it lay on the bed, and followed Harry’s voice into the kitchen. She looked up as he entered.

“How are you doing?” she asked, cheerfully.

John shrugged.

“Well like I said, if you need any help unpacking, just let me know. Feel free to make yourself at home."

John nodded. “Thanks, Harry.” He tilted his head towards the kettle. “You going to turn that on, or just let the water sit there?”

“Oh.” Harry flicked the kettle on and smiled at her brother. “Sorry. Distracted.”

John nodded, absently, then looked out the window, staring at the woods that surrounded the property. “I’m just about done unpacking. I think I’ll take a break for now and get some fresh air.”

“Sounds good,” Harry said. “You want me to show you around? You haven’t been here since you got back from—”

“No, I’m fine. I can find my way around. Thanks.” John hated the way Harry looked at him, sadly and almost pitying. He turned away.

Harry pursed her lips and got John’s RAMC mug from its new home in the cabinet. She tossed in a teabag and filled it with water, then pushed it across the counter to John.

“Well,” she said, watching John carefully as he stirred in some milk, “I have a couple of things to do inside. You’ll be alright, then?”

John scowled into his mug. “I’ll be fine. You don’t need to babysit me. I’m not going to break if left unattended.”

“Just trying to help you out.”

An awkward silence hung in the air between them. John sipped carefully from his mug, then headed for the front door. He heard Harry sigh behind him as he left the room.

 

\---

 

The sun was high in the clear August sky. Birds chirped, insects hummed, and the air was pleasantly warm without being uncomfortable. John couldn’t have hated it more if he tried. It was peaceful, and the air smelled good and fresh, but he could tell already that nothing happened here. They had passed through the centre of town on the way to Harry's house. It was made up of a handful of antique stores, a few boutiques, a barbershop, a train station, and a few family-owned restaurants. People greeted each other as they passed on the road. No less than three complete strangers had waved at John as they drove through.

Harry’s house was small and cosy, a pale blue colour that matched the summer sky on clear days. Harry and Clara had repainted it themselves years ago. Now that they were divorced, John knew it would never get repainted. Harry tended to cling to small memories like that.

The property was surrounded on all sides by a white picket fence. It separated the front yard from the dirt road that led into town, and the backyard from the deer that used to sneak in and eat Clara’s garden. All that was left of the garden now were the marigolds that had insisted on reseeding themselves from the year before. They grew big and bright, dropping petals on the ground in preparation for next spring.

John walked up to the fence and ran his hand along the edge, feeling the wood grain against his fingertips. He took another sip of tea, then rested his mug on a fencepost.

“Hi there.”

John startled and looked up. There was a man on the other side of the fence, coming down the dirt road leading from the forest. He stopped in front of John with both hands clasped behind his back. John felt a flash of panic before he willed it away. He gripped his cane tightly. His eyes lingered on the man’s suit, which made him seem strikingly out-of-place against the woodland backdrop.

“You like?” the man asked, in a sing-song voice. He brushed his hands down his front. “Westwood.”

John nodded, politely.

“Are you new in town?” the man asked.

“Just moving in today.”

“Ah. Alone?”

“With my sister. Temporarily.”

“How long has she lived here, your sister?”

John shrugged. “A long time.”

The man smiled. “Forever?” John didn’t say anything. He got the feeling he was being left out of an inside joke.

The man looked John up and down. "I'd like to show you around,” he said.

John forced a smile. “Maybe another time.”

“Don’t be silly, I don’t bite.”

“It’s just that I have a lot of unpacking to do right now,” John tried to look apologetic. They held eye contact just long enough for it to be uncomfortable.

The man was about to speak when the sound of a violin drifted through the woods, catching their attention immediately. They both turned towards it, but nothing could be seen in the darkening forest. John frowned. There weren’t any houses nearby for at least a mile. He looked back at the man in the Westwood suit, who was staring in the direction of the music, eyes wide and eager. When he turned back to John, the intensity in his gaze made John take a step backwards. The man opened his mouth to speak just as they heard the front door squeak open.

“John?” John turned to see Harry watching them. Her eyes flickered to the stranger at the fence, then back at John questioningly.

“Be right there,” called John.  He turned back. “My sister. Like I said, there’s a lot of unpacking to do, so if you don’t mind...”

The man shook his head. “Oh, no, no. Go on. Settle in. I’ll see you in town, I’m sure.” He gave what should have been a soothing smile. A chill went up John’s spine for no reason that he could place. He grabbed his now-tepid mug from the fencepost and went back inside.

 

\---

John asked Harry about the violin over dinner.

“Oh, I’ve heard rumours about it,” she said. “People in town say it’s elf music. Clara was really into the elf thing. She used to leave a bowl of honey on the front steps for them.” Harry poked at the carrots on her dinner plate, a sad smile on her face. She looked up at John. “Apparently elves like honey. Who knew?”

“So you’re saying no one knows what it is?” John asked. “No one lives down there?”

Harry shook her head. “No, the road's a dead end with no one else on it. I’ve no idea where the music comes from. At first I thought it was spooky, but now...well, it’s not hurting anyone, is it?” She put her fork down and pointed at John’s dinner roll. “You going to eat that?”


	2. Chapter 2

_"We may have to leave sooner than I thought."_

_It was midnight, and Sherlock had just arrived home. He placed his violin case on his desk without looking at his brother._

_"He escaped from prison last night. You know he's tracking you. It's only a matter of time before he finds it."_

_Sherlock didn't speak. He traced the clasp of the violin case with his fingertips._

_"Sherlock, we have to lead him away."_

_"I hate running."_

_Mycroft shook his head. "We don't have a choice. We'll always be running."_

_"The rest of the month, you said. Give me ‘til the end of the month."_

_"What is your attachment to this place?" Sherlock didn't answer, and Mycroft didn't push the question any further. "Fine. The end of the month. But if there is any hint of his presence here—"_

_"I_ _know." Sherlock left his violin on the desk and went to his room. The door closed firmly behind him._

 

\---

 

John woke early the next morning—a habit that he couldn't imagine breaking anytime soon. He had a quick breakfast, neglecting the telly in favour of staring at the gate outside the window. It was another still, sunny day. John's leg wasn't bothering him as much as it usually did, so he left a note for Harry and wandered outside for a walk. Going east down the road would lead him into town. Going west would lead him away, and in the direction of the phantom violin music from the night before. John didn’t hesitate. He started walking west.

The grass along the edge of the pathway was still wet with morning dew, and sunlight filtered in from the sky above, casting patterns on John's skin. The trees grew thicker farther from the house.  Their canopy hid the position of the sun and made it easy to lose track of time.  John felt like he had been walking forever when a thatch of trees farther off the path caught his eye. He slowed down and studied it. The trees in that area had grown tall, strong, and dense with leaves. The vibrant green of the plant life almost hurt John's eyes. He stepped off the path and went through the undergrowth to get closer. When he saw a glimmer of movement, John paused. He walked closer as quietly as he could, slipping through the tree trunks toward a small clearing in the middle of the thatch. He saw more movement, and immediately hid behind a nearby bush until it stopped. He peered out into the clearing.

A man was kneeling in the middle, in front of an enormous tree. He wore a black suit and crisp white shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His skin was pale white, particularly on his exposed arms. It contrasted sharply with his unkempt dark hair. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. John strained his eyes to watch as the man moved a pile of stones next to him, exposing a hidden spring, and filled the vial to the top with water. He replaced the stones when he was done, hiding the spring once more.

John shifted his position and took one step further. He jumped when a twig snapped under his foot. The man turned to look at him, and John’s face burned with embarrassment.

“You might as well come out,” the man said.

John walked out from behind the tree, sheepishly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to spy.”

“Hmm.” The man slid the vial of water into his pocket and eyed John, suspiciously. “I haven’t met you,” he said.

John shook his head. “No, I just moved here yesterday. John Watson.” He walked into the clearing and extended his hand.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

They shook hands.

“So...” Sherlock began, “How long have you been back from the Middle East?”

“Excuse me?”

“Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Um—Afghanistan. I’m sorry, do you know my sister? Are you a friend of Harry’s?”

“I don’t need to know your sister to know that you were recently invalided from Afghanistan with a shoulder injury and a psychosomatic limp.”

John’s eyes widened. "How—"

"Your stance clearly says military. Training's still ingrained, as evidenced by the fact that you still stand like that even in a civilian environment. Not to mention the fact that you're wearing a ball chain around your neck. I can see the outline of the tags under your shirt from here, and even if I didn't, that type of chain on men is more often than not used for identity tags. The way you move your shoulder shows that you're used to a bandage being placed there. It's stiff, due to the injury itself, but also as if you're trying not to stretch the tape too far. You don't use your cane the way that you should. You use it when you think you ought to, when you remember that you have it, which tells me that the limp's in your head. Then there's the look in your eyes."

"The look in my—"

"What did you do in the army, exactly? I don't have enough data to figure it out."

"I—I was a doctor."

"Doctor....yes, that explains quite a bit, actually." Sherlock looked at John, his body tensed, as if he were expecting an attack.

John's mouth was slack. “That was incredible.”

Sherlock seemed surprised for only half a moment before giving a proud shrug. “Yes, well—” he said.

“No, seriously. Can you do that with anyone?”

“Yes.”

“That’s extraordinary.”

Sherlock looked down at the ground, then back up at John. Though he didn’t say anything, John got the distinct feeling that Sherlock had never received that reaction before.

“Do you live around here?” John asked. “It's just that—my sister said hers was the only house on this road. She’s lived here forever, so I thought she’d know.”

Sherlock snorted. “Not forever,” he said.

“What?”

“No, I don’t live on this road. My house is a couple miles through the woods. I know this spot though, so I like to come here for some peace and quiet.”

John nodded. “You live with your...wife? Family?” He cursed himself as soon as the words came out, regretting sounding so obvious and awkward.

Sherlock smiled, his eyes twinkling. “No wife. No such attachments. I live with my brother.”

“Ah.” John gestured to the pile of stones by Sherlock’s feet. “What were you doing? Taking a water sample?"

Sherlock placed a hand against his pocket as if to verify that the vial was still there. “Yes, just running a few tests on it. Water quality, you know. Want to know what’s in it.”

“This isn’t part of the town’s water supply, is it?”

“No, but one can never be too careful.”

“Do you work for the town?”

Sherlock huffed a sigh and looked away to the side. “Let’s not talk about the water right now. It’s indescribably dull.”

John suppressed a smile at Sherlock’s melodrama. "Alright.  I mean, we don't have to talk at all, if you don't want. I was just walking through." He took a step back as if to walk away.

"No, it's fine!  Talking is fine."

John grinned. "Okay then. So, what do you do around here?"

They ended up sitting down underneath the tree, Sherlock lounging against the trunk, John sitting on an enormous root, his folded arms on his knees. They chatted until the sun rose directly overhead, shedding light and heat onto the grass below.

John couldn't remember the last time he felt so completely at ease talking to someone he had only just met. Sherlock told stories about his job as a consulting detective, travelling around the country and solving cases when the police were "out of their depth." His stories were interesting and exciting and sometimes completely ridiculous. John accused Sherlock of lying multiple times, but Sherlock just grinned and explained his deductions until John shook his head in amazement. John didn't talk much about himself, and Sherlock didn't ask. John was thankful to not have to talk about the war.

As Sherlock spoke, John began to notice small, endearing things about him. The way he gesticulated wildly when he got passionate about a subject, the way his eyes lit up when John praised him, the way his dark brown hair was highlighted where the sun shone through the leaves above him. At the end of one story involving a circus family and a kidnapped trapeze artist, Sherlock shifted, moving into the sunlight for just a moment. He grimaced and raised his hand to his eyes, looking up at the canopy to glare at the sun and exposing a long, slender line of neck. John’s eyes were immediately drawn to it. When Sherlock caught him staring, John averted his gaze quickly.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Sherlock said, with a smile. “I’m much too old for you.”

John chuckled. “Please. You’re clearly younger than me.” Sherlock didn’t say anything, but his grin grew wider. “Alright,” said John. “How old are you, then?”

“104.”

John laughed. “Oh? You look good for your age.”

“Thank you.”

Their flirting was interrupted by the sound of John’s ringtone. Sherlock turned away and toyed with a blade of grass while John answered his phone. Unsurprisingly, it was Harry, wondering where John had gone. He told her he would be home soon, and glanced at the time after hanging up. It was a lot later than he had expected.

"I should go," he said, regretfully. Sherlock looked up at him and nodded. "Harry said she would introduce me to a friend of hers who's trying to fill a management position in her store. It's not exactly my ideal job, but..." he trailed off, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

"Oh, don't do that," said Sherlock. "The clinic downtown is looking for a GP. You'd do better there."

John raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Ask for Susan. She'll give you an interview." Sherlock took out his phone and tapped at the screen as he spoke. "I'll put in a good word for you. I call them sometimes with medical questions. I think it bothers them. They'd be glad to have the questions directed at you, instead. Also, they aren't nearly as knowledgeable on certain matters as I would like."

"And what kinds of questions are you asking them, exactly?"

"You'll find out."

John smiled. "Well, thank you. That's very kind. Though you barely know me."

"I know enough." Sherlock looked up from his phone, and they held eye contact for a moment before John turned away.

"Well, I'd better get home. Harry's been alone all morning, and I'm starting to feel guilty about it." He picked up his jacket where it lay folded on a tree root. "I'll see you in town?"

Sherlock nodded, and John started to leave. He paused at the other end of the clearing to wave goodbye, but Sherlock didn't appear to see him. He was still leaning against the tree, long legs crossed at the ankles, eyes distant and unfocused.

 

\---

 

Harry was slightly disappointed to hear that John wasn't interested in her friend's management position.

"I owe her a favour," she said. "Plus, she's just your type. I was hoping you two would hit it off and have a little office romance." She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

John laughed. "Well thanks for thinking of me, but I'm not really looking for anyone right now." He smiled a bit, and turned quickly away when Harry narrowed her eyes at him.

"Did you meet someone?" she asked.

John busied himself by filling the kettle, though he wasn't at all thirsty. "No, what are you talking about?" he asked. "I just got here, how could I have met someone?"

"Oh, methinks the lady doth protest too much." Harry moved in front of John, studying his face. "Your ears are turning pink," she said. "Who is she?"

"I told you, I didn't—"

"John, you were gone for about four hours this morning. I've lived here for years. I know very well that there is nothing in town that would occupy anyone for four hours."

John rolled his eyes. "It's nothing. I just—there was this bloke out in the woods who I was talking to for awhile."

"You chatted up some random bloke in the woods for four hours?"

"He was very interesting."

"And there go the ears again!" John cursed his betraying body and covered his ears with his hands. "So does this bloke have a name?" Harry asked, teasingly.

John poured himself a cup of tea and watched for Harry's reaction over the top of his mug. "Sherlock Holmes."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Oh? Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing. Weird guy, kind of quiet. He's good-looking, I guess. But I know a girl who does some office work at the police station, and she says he's a bit of an arse."

John smiled and took another sip of tea. "He's just different is all."

"What, you talk to him for four hours and now you know him? You're just thinking with your cock."

John almost choked on a mouthful of tea. He smacked Harry on the arm, and she laughed as she jumped away from him. For a moment he felt like they were teenagers again. He fingered the chain hanging around his neck. It didn't feel as heavy as it usually did.

 

\---

 

A few nights later, John woke to the sound of distant violin music drifting through his window. He laid in bed listening to it, then got up and pulled on a pair of jeans and some shoes. He snuck down the hallway as quietly as he could. Harry was usually a heavy sleeper, and there wasn’t any sound coming from her room. He peered in to find her lying asleep with her head buried in her pillow. He crept to the front door, grabbed a torch, and slipped outside.

The night air was almost supernaturally still. The full moon cast a bright glow onto the grass below, lighting John’s way down the path from the front door. He quietly opened the gate and headed down the west end of the road, following the sound of the music.

The violin played a slow, soft melody, fitting for the nighttime. John followed it like a child enticed by the Pied Piper. He knew instinctively where it was coming from, and he had a strong suspicion as to whom he would find playing. It wasn’t long before he was standing at the edge of the lush clearing where he had met Sherlock a few days ago.

The music stopped as John approached. He paused, waiting for it to continue, but when it didn’t, he kept walking. Sherlock was sitting up against the tree, plucking violin strings to the beat of John’s footsteps. He didn’t look up when John walked towards him.

“You play beautifully,” said John. “I can hear it from my bedroom window.”

Sherlock stared down at his violin.  “I hope I didn’t wake you," he said, not seeming overly concerned.

“No. It’s fine.”

There was a moment of silence. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably against the root of the tree. John held out a hand to help him up, and Sherlock peered at it carefully before taking it. Their hands lingered together for longer than was necessary.

“Do you make a habit of playing violin in the middle of the woods at night?” John asked with a grin.

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s peaceful out here. I can hear nothing but my own playing, and there’s no one here to bother me.”

“Oh, I didn’t—if you want to be alone—”

“No,” Sherlock said, sharply. “No, you’re not bothering me. Not at all.” He studied John for a moment, his head tilted. “You’re in your pyjamas.”

John looked down at his wrinkled t-shirt and laughed. “I just threw on yesterday’s jeans. I wasn’t really worried about looking proper. I don’t have anyone I want to impress.”

“You don’t want to impress me?”

John smiled. “I’m comfortable with you. I don’t need to put on airs.”

Sherlock bit his lip and looked past John, his eyes flickering over to the small pile of stones that contained the hidden spring.

“We have to stop meeting here,” he said.

“There are other places we could meet.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“Would you have dinner with me?”

It was very dark, the clearing being lit only by the light from John's torch and faint moonlight from the sky above. Though he could barely see, John still recognized the expression of complete surprise on Sherlock's face. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to find an appropriate response.

"I don't—you should know that I don't date.  Ever."

John's stomach lurched with disappointment and embarrassment. "Oh.  Well, that's fine. I'm sorry if I—"

"No, it's not you, it's—" Sherlock stopped mid-cliché, wrinkling his nose at his own choice of words.

"' _It's not you, it's me_?'" asked John with a smile.

Sherlock looked at him with regret. "I'm sorry, but it's very complicated."

John waited for Sherlock to explain, but no explanation came. He shuffled his feet in the grass and shivered, the nighttime air a bit too cold for a t-shirt. When Sherlock saw, he reached out and touched two fingers to John’s arm, as if testing his temperature. John looked down at Sherlock's hand on his skin, confused over the mixed signals. Sherlock dropped his hand.

"I don't date," he said. "But if you'd like to have dinner tomorrow, then I believe I could use your help on a case I'm working on."

"A case?"

"Yes."

" _My_ help?"

Sherlock frowned. "Yes, a case, your help, why are you repeating me?"

"It's just that I haven't been of much use to anyone since I—" John cut himself off, awkwardly. Sherlock didn't finish his sentence, though he easily could have.

"Meet me in town tomorrow. There's an Italian restaurant at the south end of that sad excuse for a town common. Say...7:00?"

John nodded and smiled. "I'll see you then."

"Wear comfortable shoes."

John was going to ask for an explanation, then thought better of it. He watched as Sherlock packed up his violin and gathered his coat and scarf from his spot by the tree.

“Don’t you sleep?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Rarely.” He pulled on his coat, and John forced himself not to think about how warm it looked, and how warm he would be if Sherlock were to share it with him. John jumped when Sherlock tossed him the scarf.

"Don't get sick," Sherlock said. "I need you tomorrow. Possibly in top shape. Return it to me at dinner." He neglected the pathway, heading towards the opposite side of the clearing instead. He gave a vague wave behind him as he started through the woods.

 

\---

 

The restaurant was a tiny brick building nestled between two antique stores. There was no sign in front, the only evidence that it served food at all being a paper menu taped to the door. Sherlock was already seated when John arrived. He sat near the front window, looking out at the street. He didn't look up when John slipped into the chair across from him. John leaned his cane against the wall to his left, waited for a moment, then spoke.

"Have you been here before?" he asked.

Sherlock glanced over at him, then turned back out the window.

"I've come here often." He pushed a menu to John's side of the table.

John nodded, more to himself than to Sherlock, as Sherlock was studying the other side of the street with fierce determination. He looked at the menu, and they sat silently until the waiter came to take their order.

"So what's the case?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded in the direction of the window. "Drug deal. Happening across the street. One man in particular has been causing some...trouble for the police for some time. I suspect his activities will escalate if he isn't stopped soon."

John seemed unimpressed. "Really? Drugs?" he asked.

Sherlock looked at him, mildly offended. "What?"

"Well it's just that after all those stories you told me, I had imagined something a little more exciting. I mean, suburban drug deals happen everywhere, all the time. I was expecting homicide or serial killers or something."

Sherlock gave a tight smile. "Yes, well. Things were more exciting when I lived in London."

John's ears perked. "You didn't tell me you lived in London! Whereabouts did you live?"

"Baker Street. Just south of Regent's Park."

John smiled and fiddled with the edge of the napkin in his lap. "I used to live in London, too. Before the army. When I got back I had a bedsit there, but my—my therapist suggested moving out of the city and in with Harry. She needed a bit of help too, after her divorce, so we agreed to support each other." He sighed and looked up at Sherlock, wistfully. "I miss the city, though. I'd love to go back in a few years. Once Harry and I get settled."

Sherlock nodded, and John noticed that he had been watching John the whole time, seemingly forgetting the drug deal across the street.

"I long for it," Sherlock said. "Sometimes I feel like I'm suffocating without it."

"Why don't you go back?"

Sherlock looked out the window again. "Impossible. My brother wouldn't allow it." he said. He didn't explain further.

John nodded as if he understood, though he wasn't sure he did, fully.

When the waiter brought their meals, Sherlock ordered a bottle of red wine. John raised an eyebrow at him, but Sherlock didn't give any indication of having seen.

John was halfway through his lasagne when he noticed Sherlock stiffen across from him. John took a sip of wine, then promptly spat it out when Sherlock jerked forward at the table, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing, tightly.

"There!" he said in a strong, commanding voice that gave John a shiver. He pointed out the window at two men across the street, talking casually and looking completely normal.

"What, that's them?" asked John. "How do you know?"

"I know." Sherlock pulled a few notes from his wallet and slapped them on the table. John looked down at them with surprise.

"How much do I owe?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled on his coat. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm buying you dinner, don't make a fuss over it."

"Oh—thank you. Do you want me to wait for change?"

"That's enough for the meal plus tip. Now follow me."

"Sherlock, that's fifty pounds. I saw the menu, the prices weren't—"

"The wine may have been more expensive than I let you believe, now come on!"

John hid a smile and followed Sherlock closely as he went out the door. "I thought you said this wasn't a date?"

Sherlock flashed him a grin before crossing the street.  John's cane lay forgotten against the wall of the restaurant.

 

\---

 

The two drug dealers split up, but Sherlock yelled for John to follow him, only chasing one. John hadn't run so fast since Afghanistan. They flew across the town common, leapt over a brook, and into a wheat field. Sherlock seemed to have the entire town memorized. He led John down streets that John didn't know existed. Finally, it seemed as if the dealer no longer knew where he was going. He stumbled into a barn, expecting to run through, but found that the exit was locked.

"Ugh, finally," Sherlock complained. "You've been lost since we turned onto Park Street."

The dealer turned to Sherlock and whipped out a switchblade. "Don't come any closer," he said. "Or I will fucking cut you and your friend there."

"Oh please, you were planning on killing Linda Palmer, but you never would have gone through with it. You don't have it in you."

John's eyes widened.

"What the hell are you talking about?!" the dealer yelled, frantically.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a text. "Police will be here soon," he said. "And I think you'll find that I've gathered enough evidence to prove conspiracy to murder."

The dealer snapped and launched himself at Sherlock, swinging his blade at Sherlock's chest. Sherlock jumped out of the way and tried to grab at the man's arm, but failed. The man went for a stab with deadly accuracy, and John cried out as it hit home. The blade sank into Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock grunted as the dealer gave the blade a twist before pulling it out.

"Sherlock!" John ran from his spot by the door, immediately going to Sherlock, but Sherlock shook his head and pointed at the dealer.

"I'm fine, get him," he gasped.

John would have stayed by Sherlock had he not been so blinded by rage. Comforted by the fact that Sherlock was well enough to speak, and was holding himself upright on the ground, he ran to the dealer and knocked the switchblade out of the surprised man's hand before tackling him to the ground. He slammed a punch to the man's solar plexus when the man tried to get away.

"John!"

John didn't hear Sherlock's voice behind him. He pinned the dealer to the ground and punched until he was pulled away by strong hands gripping his shoulders.

"John, it's alright. He's not going anywhere." Sherlock led John away, and John struggled for breath as adrenaline surged through his system. He looked up at Sherlock's face, then down at his torn shirt.

"You—you—" he turned back to the dealer, who was curled on his side on the ground. Police sirens wailed outside the barn walls.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said. "His blade snagged in my shirt, but other than that, he didn't hurt me."

Four police officers burst into the barn, three heading straight to the dealer and slapping handcuffs around his wrist. One officer went right to Sherlock. John didn't hear a word they said, too focused on the sight of Sherlock's torn shirt, and the memory of the blade sinking into Sherlock's stomach as his face twisted with pain.

 

\---

 

After being questioned by the police, and reiterating a hundred times that he didn't know much of anything other than the fact that the man had gone at Sherlock with a switchblade, John stood outside the barn and leaned his head against the wall. The memory of Sherlock's supposed stabbing was still strong in his mind, but now the details were getting blurry. Had the switchblade really touched him at all? John had been too far away to see for sure. And the look on Sherlock's face could easily have been fear and not pain.

John looked over at the barn door to see Sherlock walking towards him.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. "I should be asking you that question."

"I told you. The blade didn't touch me." Sherlock put a hand to his stomach as if to prove it. He stepped closer and leaned against the wall next to John.

"I was so fucking scared," John said. "I really thought he had stabbed you." He was staring up at the sky, and felt Sherlock turn to look at him. "And then I got so angry. I think I would have killed him for you."

There was a moment of silence, then Sherlock said quietly "that's not true." He sounded unsure.

"I'll tell you one thing, though." John looked at Sherlock with a grin. "That was the best date I've ever been on." Sherlock chuckled quietly.

A police officer came out of the barn to get John's contact information. He thanked John for helping out, but also warned him about the dangers of vigilantism. He offered them a ride home, but Sherlock refused for both of them. When the police cars drove away, John realized how late it was for the first time.

"Where to?" he asked.

Sherlock flipped up his coat collar and started heading back the way they had come.

"That depends," he said. "I've decided I want to take you somewhere. But would you like to pick up your cane first? You left it at the restaurant."

John stopped and looked down at his empty hands. Sherlock kept walking for a few steps, then turned around to smile at him.

"Psychosomatic," he said.

John looked at Sherlock as if he were seeing him for the first time. There was no smile on his lips or in his eyes, but his chest felt like it would burst with gratitude, as well as the flutter of something deeper. Sherlock turned back around and kept walking.

"Come on," he said. "With me."

 

\---

 

They walked back through town and down Harry's dirt road. John thought for a moment that Sherlock was bringing him home, but they kept walking past Harry's house, going farther down the road than John had ever been. It wound through the woods at an almost imperceptible incline. John squinted up ahead and saw a faint glimmer of sky.

“Where does this lead?” he asked.

“Nowhere. It’s a dead end,” said Sherlock.

They walked until the road came to an abrupt stop, the dirt pathway overrun with wild grasses. It opened into a wide meadow, surrounded on three sides by forest. Sherlock motioned for John to walk farther. At the other side of the meadow was a large old oak tree. It overlooked the edge of a hill, which dropped off so suddenly that it was practically a cliff.

Sherlock stood at the edge and looked at John out of the corner of his eye.

“London,” he said.

All of London was spread out in the distance in front of them, a sea of glimmering light. It was too distant to make out much except for the tallest buildings and the widest streets, shining like golden arteries. The Thames was a shadow winding through the city, lined on either side by life. John realized suddenly that he was holding his breath, and he exhaled in a long, slow sigh.

“It’s gorgeous.” He pointed at a wheel in the distance. “Look. We can see the Eye from here.”

“Tallest Ferris wheel in Europe,” Sherlock said. “You can see all of London from up there.” His eyes were distant as they swept across the city.

“Have you ever been inside?” asked John.

Sherlock frowned. “In the Eye? No. Horrid tourist attraction.”

"Yeah. You wouldn't say that if you'd ever been inside." John smiled. "I'd like to take you sometime."

They stood close enough to feel each others’ body heat, but didn’t touch until John made the first move. With the smallest of gestures, his fingertips breached the centimetres between them, and he laced Sherlock’s fingers in his own. He felt his nerves disappear as Sherlock squeezed his hand in return. They didn’t speak, just stared down at the city, enveloped in the sky.

 

\---

 

Sherlock walked John home that night, their fingers intertwined the entire way. Outside Harry’s house, they dropped each others’ hands and exchanged awkward goodbyes. John walked towards the front door, then stopped, turned around, and jogged back towards Sherlock. When Sherlock bowed his head forward hesitantly, John put a hand on the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss. Sherlock slid a hand under John’s jacket and rested it at the small of his back.

For a few long minutes, they kissed. The night was still and quiet. All that could be heard were quiet huffs of breath, the sound of their lips meeting, and the rustle of clothes as they continuously tried to pull each other closer. It felt both luxuriously long and too short at the same time. John revelled in the feeling and gave two gentle nips to Sherlock’s bottom lip before pulling away, his eyes glassy. He looked up at Sherlock and smiled.

“Goodnight,” he said in a whisper.

Sherlock’s eyes were sober. “Sleep well,” he said.

John gave his hand one last squeeze before heading down the front path to the door. He turned back to wave, then shut himself inside.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sherlock felt Mycroft's eyes on him as he walked into the house._

_"Do you really have nothing better to do than sit around and wait for me to come home?" he asked._

_Mycroft smiled without a trace of humour. "I want to make sure you do come home."_

_"What could possibly happen to me that would worry you? I can't be killed."_

_"You can still feel pain, Sherlock. You can still be hurt." Mycroft watched Sherlock take off his coat and scarf and toss them on a chair. "You were with someone," he said. He spoke casually, with no hint of surprise. Sherlock pursed his lips as if to hide them. "Does he know that you'll be leaving in three weeks?"_

_Sherlock turned to glare at his brother, but Mycroft saw through him instantly. His face fell._

_"Oh, Sherlock." There was a trace of pity in his voice._

 

\---

 

John saw Sherlock every day for a week afterwards. They met by the oak tree in the meadow, looking down on London and exchanging stories about the last time they had been there.

On Tuesday, they laid on their backs in the grass, staring up at the clouds and talking until the sky turned dark and the stars came out. They clung together on the walk back to Harry’s house, half wary of walking down the pitch black road without a torch, and half using the darkness as an excuse to hold tightly onto each others’ arms. John stumbled on a tree root halfway down the road, and grabbed at Sherlock’s waist to keep his balance. Sherlock righted him, and kept one hand pressed to John’s back for the rest of the walk. They stood outside the fence to kiss goodbye, and Sherlock ran his hand up John’s spine and into his hair. John gave a full-body shiver at the sensation.

On Thursday, the sun was too strong to lie in the grass of the meadow. Sherlock leaned up against the oak tree reading a book about poisons, while John listened to him ramble on about the chemical composition of each one. Sherlock didn’t realize that John had fallen asleep against his shoulder until he made a particularly strong gesticulation in his passion and ended up elbowing John in the stomach. John woke up coughing and laughed at the bewildered look on Sherlock’s face.

 

\---

 

One week after his interview, John got the job at the clinic. He was sitting in front of the telly with Harry when he got the phone call, and turned the volume down low to answer, ignoring Harry's glare. She watched as he paced back and forth between the kitchen and living room, then gave him a thumbs up when he burst into a grin and looked over at her.

"Congratulations," she said, after he had hung up and sat back down on the sofa.

"Thanks." John put the phone in his pocket and turned the volume back up, not really watching whatever cooking show was on, but leaving it on for Harry. He saw her check her own phone out of the corner of his eye. Her foot was restlessly twitching against the chair.

"You okay?" John asked.

"Fine," she said. She put the phone down on the side table and turned back to the telly. John wasn't fooled. Her eyes were distant and troubled, and there was a tiny crease in the middle of her forehead. Her foot kept tapping against the chair cushion.

"You have a support group meeting tonight, right?" John asked.

"I said I'm fine."

"I didn't ask a second time, I'm just—"

"Drop it, John."

John pursed his lips and took his phone back out to text.

"Are you texting him again?" asked Harry. "God John, you're like a teenager."

"Well he did help me get the job. It's only right to thank him."

Harry rolled her eyes, but smiled. "Ah yes, of course. Wonder boy. Pretty face, good shag, gets you a job. What more could you want?"

John glanced up at her over his phone. "I'm not sleeping with him," he said. He typed another "thanks" in reply to Sherlock's congratulations, added a smilie, and then deleted it, thinking that Sherlock probably wouldn't appreciate it.

Harry looked over at him. "No shagging yet?" John shook his head. "Well what am I supposed to think?" she asked. "You've come home with fresh bruises on your neck twice now, you slag."

John threw a pillow at her.

 

\---

 

Sherlock stopped by that night to congratulate John properly. They stood in the front doorway for ten minutes until Harry passed by, saw John toying with the top buttons of Sherlock's shirt, and cleared her throat loudly. John felt his ears heat again, and knew Harry would be mentioning it later.

"Sherlock, this is my sister, Harry. Harry, meet Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes flitted over Harry quickly as they shook hands. She raised an eyebrow, but met his gaze boldly when he looked her in the eye.

"So you're the one who's been chasing around my baby brother?" she asked. "I certainly hope you'll be taking good care of him."

Sherlock nodded. "I fully intend to."

"Good. It's nice to meet you, then."

John looked between the two, awkwardly. Harry looked defiant, and Sherlock looked as if he were holding something back. Finally, Harry nodded at them and left the hallway. She returned quickly with her jacket over her arm.

"I'm going to my meeting," she said. "Be back later. You kids have fun. And don't forget to practice safe sex."

Sherlock smirked, but it faded when he looked at John and saw his troubled expression.

"Something's wrong," he said.

John shrugged. "I'm worried about her."

"I know. She's thinking of drinking again." John didn't meet Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock was only confirming what John had suspected. He sighed and took Sherlock's hand, changing the subject.

"Would you like to stay?" he asked. "Harry won't be back for a couple of hours."

Sherlock looked at him with regret. "I honestly can't," he said. "I'm on a case."

"You're on a case right now? Anything I can help with?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not this time. You wouldn't like it anyway. More drugs. Very boring."

John smiled, sticking two fingers in the waistband of Sherlock's trousers and pulling him closer.

"I thought you didn't take the boring ones?"

"I do when they offer me a day's free reign of the morgue in return for solving it."

John laughed. "Well, whatever makes you happy," he said. "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Probably not. I'll solve the case tonight and spend tomorrow at the morgue. I'm holding them to the full 24 hours, since they never specified when we made the agreement."

"Bugger for them."

"Yes, well."

Sherlock put a hand to John's chest, outlining the shape of the tags underneath his t-shirt. John watched as Sherlock's expression turned inward. He looked troubled again. Part of John wanted Sherlock to tell him everything, but another part knew that it was too much to ask for.

Sherlock's fingers traced the chain up John's chest and around the back of his neck. He pulled John in, but didn't kiss him, just stroked the clasp again and again where it settled over John's skin.

 

\---

 

John's first day of work went better than he had expected. He quickly realized that he was overqualified for the position, and because of his experience, he instantly gained the respect of his co-workers. His patients seemed happy to meet him, and though he had nothing but routine check-ups all day, he could tell that the work he was doing was deeply important to them. He got home around dinnertime feeling pretty good about his day, only to find that Harry was kneeling over the toilet, throwing up with mascara streaks running down her face.

She looked up as he entered the bathroom.

“I’m sorry, John,” she cried, weakly. She wiped at her face with a towel and gave a wet cough into the toilet.

John sat down next to her and pulled her hair away from her face. He murmured “it’s alright, it’ll be okay,” as she rested her head on the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl. He stroked her back to soothe her as she tried to explain that Clara was getting re-married and when she found out...

John shushed her and got her a glass of water to rinse her mouth.

“That’s why I moved in with you,” he said. “So we can help each other out.”

She squeezed his hand tightly and apologized repeatedly as he helped her into bed.

 

\---

 

The next morning, John brought Harry breakfast and sat with her until she shooed him away so she could “mope in peace.” She called a friend from her support group, who promised to come by to keep her company. John smiled at Harry, reminded her that he had his phone with him if she needed anything, and went out to head towards the meadow, where he knew Sherlock would be waiting.

He was halfway there when he sensed movement in the clearing where they had first met. When he went to investigate, Sherlock was knelt over the spring again, collecting another vial of water.

“What do you do with all that stuff, anyway?” John asked.

Sherlock put the vial in his pocket and re-covered the spring as John approached him.

“Tests. Science things. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Is that so?” John asked with a smile.

“Mmm.” Sherlock tugged at John’s shirt and pulled him closer, sniffing his neck. “You smell like vomit."

John barked out a laugh and shoved Sherlock aside. “Thanks a lot,” he said. “Harry got some bad news last night and fell off the wagon again. She was throwing up for a good while.” He knelt down by the spring and pushed aside the rocks.

“What are you doing?” asked Sherlock, sharply. He put a hand on John’s shoulder and pulled him away.

“Cleaning up a bit, since apparently a shower wasn’t enough. I don’t want you put off by the smell of Harry’s sick on my neck.” John cupped his hands to collect some water, but Sherlock smacked them away before he could touch it.

“Don’t do that.”

“What the hell, Sherlock?” John pushed Sherlock away and frowned at him. “What’s got into you? You already took your water sample. I’m not going to contaminate it.” He reached for the water again, but Sherlock put both his hands on John’s shoulders and pulled until John toppled onto his back.

“Okay, seriously?” asked John, scowling. He stood up and brushed the dirt off his trousers. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Don’t touch that water. There’s another spring elsewhere in the woods. I can take you there. Or we can go back to Harry’s, if you prefer.”

“Why, what’s wrong with this water?”

“It’s contaminated.”

“Contaminated with what? You’ve put your hands in it plenty of times. You touched it not five minutes ago.”

“John, don’t argue, just—”

“No, what’s the big deal about this water? What’s this your own special supply you can’t have me touching? Did you lay claim to it? Is that it?”

“John, I—”

“Sometimes you act like a right arse, Sherlock Holmes.”

“John.”

John crossed his arms and looked at Sherlock, expectantly. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, seeming more nervous than John had ever seen him. “What are you doing today?” he asked.

“What am I doing? Nothing. I was going to spend the day with you, but if you’re going to be like this then—”

“Harry won’t need you? Your day is free?”

“Harry’s having a friend over. There's no alcohol in the house, and she knows I have my mobile if she needs me. ...Why?”

“I’d like you to come with me. To my house.”

“Are you asking me to have sex with you after you just had a temper tantrum over a spring of water?”

“What? No. I—You need to meet my brother.”

“Your brother?”

“Just come with me.”

 

\---

 

Sherlock led John away from the path, neglecting to follow any trail and leading the way by memory. John followed willingly, his irritation at Sherlock giving way to his curiosity. Sherlock hadn’t spoken much about his brother, and John got the feeling that they didn’t get along very well, but there had to be some strength to their relationship if they still lived together.

They walked for what felt like miles.

“Does it always take you this long to get there?” asked John. “When you come to see me, you walk all this way?”

Sherlock turned to glance back at him, but didn’t say anything. They went the rest of the way in silence.

Finally, John spotted a clearing up ahead. They came upon a worn-down trail and followed it to a small cottage surrounded by flowers and bee hives. Sherlock took a breath at the front door as if to steel himself, and went inside, pulling John by the hand behind him.

The house was comfortable, warm, and a complete mess. The hall was cluttered with three coat racks, two overflowing umbrella stands, and a table covered in papers, books, and unopened packages. Sherlock led John into what appeared to be the living room. There were test tubes filled with water covering a coffee table and a writing desk. Some were attached to stands, or had stirrers in them, as if the experiments were left half-completed. A large leather sofa was pushed up against a picture window, covered in quilts and pillows that were worn and faded with age. Sherlock stepped around stacks of clutter and sat down, motioning for John to sit next to him.

“Watch the sheet music,” he said, pointing to some scattered pages by John’s feet. “I’m in the process of correcting those.”

John stepped around the sheet music and sat down on the sofa, looking around at the room. Sherlock took off his shoes and curled up his legs, facing John. John followed suit, shifting so that they sat closer together. Sherlock tugged a quilt from the edge of the sofa and tucked it around their legs.

“What’s this all about, then?” asked John. “Where’s your brother?”

Sherlock took his phone from his pocket and sent a quick text. “He’ll be home soon,” he said. He gripped the phone tightly in his hands, and didn’t look at John, instead gazing out the window with his lips pursed. He took a deep breath.

“Remember when we first met, and you asked me how old I am?”

John smiled. “Yes. I was trying to stop myself from ravishing you, and you told me that you were much too old for me.”

“What I said was true.”

“Rubbish.”

“I told you that I was 104 years old. I wasn’t lying.” John gave Sherlock a questioning look as Sherlock reached over to the table behind him and picked up a piece of paper. He passed it to John without looking at it.

John studied the paper. “This is a birth record,” he said. “This is _your_ birth record?” Sherlock nodded, watching John’s facial expression closely. John looked up. “I don’t understand.”

“I was born in the year 1908.”

“That’s impossible. You’re in your mid-thirties. Forty, at the absolute most.”

Sherlock looked down and toyed with the edge of the quilt.

“In 1942, I was...on case. And I was stuck. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out the next step in solving it. Boredom and aggravation tend to bring out my vices, which were particularly unhealthy back in those days.” Sherlock frowned and tugged at a loose thread on the quilt. “I thought that chemical stimulus would help me work. While under the influence of drugs I managed to pinpoint a suspect that I was certain was the murderer. I tracked him to a cabin in this very town. It was dark, and it was raining. I called the Met from the train station, but I didn’t wait for them to arrive. I wasn’t in the right state of mind to be doing it, but I went after him myself. I got lost in the woods, and collapsed in the clearing. The one with the spring. When I saw the water there in front of me, I drank from it. It tasted a little strange, but I was just so thirsty, and the water appeared to be clear.

Mycroft tells me that I passed out there, by the spring. He found me himself, and took me to A&E. When I woke up, I was fine. They told me that they couldn't figure out why I had collapsed. They found no drugs in my system. They told me it was probably exhaustion."

John looked at Sherlock slightly worriedly, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was being left out of a joke, or if he should start questioning Sherlock’s sanity.

“What are you saying?” he asked. “You found some kind of...fountain of youth?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know what I found. I've been experimenting on the water for decades, with no results as to how it works. But whatever it was, drinking from it has made my brother and I immortal.”

John stared at Sherlock with a slight frown. Sherlock was finally meeting his eyes. He looked slightly nervous, but determined.

"The drug dealer, the night we had dinner for the first time. You saw correctly. He stabbed me. I felt the blade go through my body, and I felt it twist. It hurt like hell, but it didn't kill me."

John was still sceptical. Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh and got up from the sofa. He sifted through some papers on the desk and pulled out a gun. John's jaw dropped as Sherlock offered it to him.

“Shoot me.”

“What?”

“Shoot me.”

John looked at the gun with a frown, but didn’t take it. “Is that loaded?” he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Asks the man who sleeps with a loaded gun underneath his pillow.”

“I don’t do that anymore.”

Sherlock looked at John with one eyebrow raised. John met his eyes with defiance.

“John, you’re not going to believe me until you see it with your own eyes. If you don’t do it, then I will.”

“I’m not going to shoot you, Sherlock.”

“Suit yourself.” John gave a strangled cry as Sherlock swiftly pointed the gun at his own chest and shot himself through the heart. The bullet went clean through his body and landed in the wall behind him. He took a step backwards from the blow, and snarled in discomfort, but didn't fall down. John stared at him in shock, then grabbed at Sherlock's opposite shoulder.

“What the fuck, Sherlock, are you—what the fuck!”

“I’m fine, John. As you can see for your—”

“Don’t you ever do that to me again, you sick fuck!” Still avoiding Sherlock’s left shoulder, John decided instead to kick him in the shins. Sherlock stumbled out of reach.

“John, look at me. I’m fine.” He took both of John’s shoulders and held him still. “I’m perfectly fine.”

John was staring at the hole in Sherlock’s shirt, where the bullet had gone through his body. He put a finger in the hole and pressed it to Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock watched carefully, then slowly unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it aside. There was a faint red mark where the bullet had passed through. Other than that, his skin was untouched. John pressed his hand over Sherlock’s chest and ran it over the skin, feeling for any abnormality. The redness slowly disappeared under his touch, and Sherlock's skin returned to normal.

“How—” he looked up at Sherlock. “How on earth—” Sherlock didn’t say anything, just met his gaze and allowed John to do what he needed to do. “I don’t understand,” John whispered.

Sherlock shook his head. “Nor do I. I can’t explain it.”

John moved a hand to Sherlock’s back, feeling for an exit wound, but not finding anything. He looked behind Sherlock, at the fresh hole in the wall. He put his hand back to Sherlock’s chest.

“That’s amazing,” he said. “I can’t—I don’t know what to say.” His fingertips kept grazing over Sherlock’s skin, and when he looked up again and met Sherlock’s eyes, the moment changed. He suddenly realized how close they were standing. Sherlock’s heartbeat fluttered under his fingertips. John took a step forward and licked his lips.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

John jumped at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. He spun around to see who he presumed was Sherlock’s brother standing in the doorway. Sherlock sneered. He rolled his eyes so dramatically that John was sure it must have caused him physical pain.

“John, meet my brother, Mycroft. Mycroft, John.”

Mycroft took a few steps into the room, stepping on some of Sherlock’s precious sheet music as he walked. Sherlock groaned as his brother’s heel dug into the paper.

“Nice to meet you,” said John, politely extending his hand.

Mycroft just smirked. “I’d like to have a chat, if you don’t mind,” he said.

John dropped his hand and nodded, feeling that he didn’t really have much of a choice. He turned back to Sherlock, who was carefully buttoning his shirt and avoiding eye contact.

“This way,” said Mycroft. He turned on his heel and walked into the hall and towards the back door.

“Your brother’s a bit of a creeper,” John whispered. Sherlock just smiled and pushed him towards the hallway with one hand. He flopped back onto the sofa as John walked out.

 

\---

 

Mycroft took John down a pathway behind the house that led to the edge of a large pond. There was a bench nestled up close to the water. They sat down, looking out over the horizon, where the sun was setting. Mycroft leaned his umbrella up against the bench and crossed his legs.

“Sherlock told you about the spring.”

It wasn’t a question, but John answered “yes” anyway.

Mycroft paused for a moment before continuing. “I always told Sherlock not to get attached to people. That caring wasn’t an advantage to people like us. There’s no point in caring for someone when they live a normal human life, and you don’t.”

John didn’t say anything.

“Sherlock doesn’t get along well with others. He’s rude and condescending. Acerbic, at times. He enjoys his detective work, when he can partake in it, but it hurts him to be surrounded by death. It’s something that he can never have, and therefore it at once confuses and terrifies him." Mycroft took a deep breath. "He likes you. He never had trouble distancing himself until you came along."

John turned to Mycroft, who was staring down at a pool of tadpoles at the edge of the water.

“What do you mean? He’s been alive for over a hundred years, he must have had a—spouse—partner—someone to pass the time with.”

Mycroft shook his head. “He’s taken lovers, but hasn’t stayed with them for any longer than a week. You’re the first person he’s truly cared for.”

John felt flattered, proud, and incredibly sad all at once. He clenched his fists in his lap. He suddenly wanted to run back to Sherlock and hold him close.

“He may ask you to drink from the spring.”

John looked up. “What?”

“Sherlock has something now that he’s never had before. He’s not going to be able to give you up easily. The simplest solution would be to never give you up. To hold onto you forever.”

John took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts. All this talk about the power of the spring, and he had never once considered that he himself could drink from it. He tried not to think too much about it just yet. He wasn't sure he was ready.

"What about you?" he asked. "Sherlock drank from the spring because he was lost and he was thirsty. How did you come to drink from it?"

Mycroft's eyes were downcast. "Sherlock doesn't do well when he's alone. He needed someone to look after him." He didn't explain further, but John didn't need him to. He looked up at the setting sun, which was casting deep red rays across the pond.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked Mycroft. “It rises in front of our house, right outside my bedroom window. Every day I see it rise in the morning and set at night. It’s a cycle that never ends.”

John chuckled. “Are you making an attempt at a heavy-handed metaphor?”

Mycroft didn’t smile. “You don’t know what it’s like, John. To have to see everyone around you grow old and die. To have to move every ten years or so because people start noticing that you aren’t aging. To have to continually cut ties with the people you've come to know and befriend and appreciate, and to start up somewhere new in a different location. It’s tiring. Life becomes extraordinarily tiring." He stiffened his back and looked at John. "You won't tell anyone about the spring."

"No," John said, surprised at the sudden hard tone to Mycroft's voice. "No, of course not."

"I think you understand what would happen if the knowledge of that spring became public. You know how detrimental that would be. To the entire human race."

John pursed his lips and turned away from Mycroft's slightly terrifying facial expression. Mycroft took John's chin in his hand and physically pulled his head back to face him.

"Tell me that you understand, John. I want to believe that my brother is intelligent enough to have made a good decision in sharing this with you, but quite frankly, I trust no one but myself."

John swallowed, audibly. "I swear I won't tell a soul," he said. He pulled Mycroft's hand away, roughly. "For fuck's sake, I swear it on my life. On Sherlock's life."

Mycroft held his eyes for a moment, then nodded and looked back out at the pond.

"I should also take this opportunity to give you the talk that I'm sure you were expecting."

"Which would be?"

"If you hurt him I'll break your legs."

John laughed. "That won't be necessary."

Mycroft smirked, but it quickly vanished. "No, I'm sure it won't."

The sun had almost completely set. A sliver of light still hovered above the horizon line. The clouds in the distance were struck with deep red and orange. Stars came out above their heads as the sky grew dimmer.

"You know we can't stay here," Mycroft said softly. "Very soon, we'll need to move on."

John bit his lip. "I know."

"You know it won't last."

John didn't say anything, and Mycroft didn't follow up on his comment. They watched as the sun sank below the horizon.

 

\---

 

Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow when Mycroft led John back into the living room. John just smiled at Sherlock and held out one hand.

“If I recall correctly, we were supposed to be hanging out at the meadow today.”

Sherlock jumped up from the sofa. He snatched up the quilt and gave Mycroft a suspicious look as they walked out the door.

“What did he say to you?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? You were with him for half an hour and he said absolutely nothing?”

John smiled and squeezed Sherlock's hand.

 

\---

 

It was dark by the time they arrived at the meadow. The sky was unusually clear and crisp, so they threw the quilt out on the ground and laid down to look up at the sky. John pointed out constellations as Sherlock grew increasingly bored. He turned onto his side to watch John as John continued naming constellations as he found them.

Sherlock traced the shell of John’s ear, pushing his hair to the side. It was getting long and unruly. It had lost its shape, obscuring the edges of John's ear with strands of dishwater blonde. John smiled.

“I should get it cut,” he said. “But it’s still a novelty for me to have it this long.”

Sherlock moved the strands from side to side with one finger.

“Some of them are turning grey,” he said.

John pulled a face. “Yes well, you try living in a warzone for a while, see what it does to your hair.”

Sherlock drew his hand back. “My hair won’t ever change.”

John turned to him. He ran a hand through Sherlock’s curls, soft and dark. They would never go grey. They would never look any different from the way they looked now. He tilted Sherlock’s chin up to see his eyes, then kissed him.


	4. Chapter 4

_"What did you say to him?"_

_Mycroft looked up from the newspaper that he was infuriatingly reading at one in the morning. "Your hair is dishevelled," he said. He looked back down at the paper._

_"I asked you a question. What did you say to John?"_

_"You know precisely what I said to him. I told him that he couldn't tell anyone else about the spring."_

_"And that's all?"_

_"I told him that if he broke my little brother's heart, I would make sure he regrets it."_

_"Touching. And?"_

_"I told him the same thing that I've been telling you for weeks now. We can't stay here. It won't last."_

_"You've ruined him. He looks at me now, and....he's...he's sad."_

_Mycroft glanced over the top of his paper with a smirk. "He's 'sad?'. Eloquent, Sherlock." He turned the page, though he didn't seem to be reading. "All relationships end at some point. You can't possibly have thought you would be together forever. You've barely known him three weeks."_

_Sherlock didn't speak. Mycroft looked up at him, then back down at his paper. There was a moment of silence, then Sherlock picked up his violin and went into his room, beginning to play as soon as the door shut behind him. Mycroft rubbed at his temple and put down his paper. He sat back in his chair and listened._

 

 ---

“I heard you were quite the hero at the clinic the other day.” They were walking back to Harry’s house after having dinner in town. Sherlock’s voice was teasing, but proud.

John grinned. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing? You stopped someone from going into anaphylactic shock.”

“It was just a peanut allergy.”

“From a child who was unaware he was allergic and was not carrying epinephrine.”

“Well injecting an EpiPen isn’t exactly rocket science.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you saw what was happening, soothed him so that he would stop panicking, and proceeded to save his life.”

John laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, well when you put it like that...”

They stood outside the gate to Harry’s house. John saw Harry peek out the window, then roll her eyes and close the curtain shut. He smiled and took Sherlock’s hands as they prepared to say goodbye for the night.

“They appreciate the work you do,” said Sherlock. “You’re dedicated to the job, even though, with your experience, you could be in a much higher position.”

John shrugged. “I don’t want a much higher position.”

“Exactly.”

The nights were getting colder.

When John shivered, Sherlock pulled him close and wrapped his coat around him. John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, kissing the same spot over and over. His heart felt full and heavy. He pulled away just far enough to speak.

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” he asked.

Sherlock huffed a laugh. John felt the shaking of his chest as Sherlock tried to suppress his amusement.

John smiled. “No, no of course you don’t.” He pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder. “I don’t either, really. But...well it’s a nice thought. That when I...that we might see each other again. That we might find each other, a lifetime from now.”

Sherlock turned silent and thoughtful.

“From a scientific standpoint," he said. "It doesn't make sense to believe in it, because there's no proof that it exists. However, by the same logic, it doesn't make sense to disbelieve, because there's no proof that it doesn't." He stroked the back of John's neck with two long fingers. “Either way...I won’t stop looking for you.”

There were three days left to the month.

 

\---

The next day, John was organizing end-of-the-day paperwork at the clinic when he noticed the flashing light on his mobile that meant he had a text. He finished putting away the paperwork, pulled on his coat and checked his phone.

_29 Aug_  
 _17:05_  
 _Clues in current case lead to seemingly-abandoned building in middle of woods. SH_

_29 Aug_  
 _17:05_  
 _Could be dangerous. Join me? SH_

John grinned. He sat up, typing out a reply as quickly as he could.

_29 Aug_  
 _17:06_  
 _definitely_

_29 Aug_  
 _17:06_  
 _Thought so. I'm outside the clinic. SH_

Sure enough, John walked out of the clinic to find Sherlock waiting for him on the bench outside. He was typing on his phone, and glanced up as John came near. He flicked through a few pictures, tilting the screen to show John. "This is what we're looking for. According to my sources, it should be about a three-mile walk from here."

"Three miles?" John asked. "Haven't you ever thought about getting a car?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Cars are not very stealthy," he said. "This way."

They headed down Main Street, past the stores and restaurants that made up the busiest, most bustling part of town, if it could be called that. John thought for a moment that he could get used to this kind of suburban life. London was exciting and diverse and one could find anything they wanted there if they knew where to look, but there was something to be said for the peaceful quiet of a small town where everyone knew each other by name.

John's small, content smile began to fade as he noticed heads turning in their direction. An elderly woman moved out of the way as they passed and glared at them, suspiciously. John did a double take as they walked by.

"Um...Sherlock?" he asked. "Is this town particularly homophobic, or..."

Sherlock frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"That woman just made the sign of the cross as we passed by."

Sherlock turned to look at the woman, who was holding onto the crucifix around her neck and watching as they walked away.

"It's not that," he said. "It seems that Mycroft and I have overstayed our welcome. People have begun to talk. Again."

"Oh." John felt a twinge in his chest, knowing what this meant.

Sherlock didn't follow a path. He took them a little ways down a hiking trail in the forest, then branched off to the right, in a direction John had never been before. He seemed to instinctively know where he was going, as if he had memorized every tree, boulder, and fallen log to create a map of the forest in his head. He didn't once seem lost.

They had been walking for an hour when they came upon the building. It was more than a cabin, but less than a house, looking like it had been abandoned for years. John noticed several cigarette butts littering the steps to the front door. Heavy grey storm clouds were beginning to gather overhead, casting a dull ominous shadow over the property. It was like something inhabited by a wicked witch in a fairy tale.

"So...what's the plan?" John asked. "We obviously can't just barge in."

Sherlock shook his head. "There’s no one inside," he said. He kept hidden behind a large bush, studying the building. "Follow me."

Ducking down low and tip-toeing as best they could, they snuck up to a front window of the house. John held his breath. Sherlock peered inside, and seemed to find what he was looking for.

"I was right," he said. He pulled a few tools out of his pocket and knelt to fiddle with the lock on the front door. The door creaked open as a low rumble of thunder growled in the distance.

The large front room was completely empty, save for a few open briefcases containing scattered papers. Sherlock's eyes scanned the room quickly. He went over to the briefcases and started sifting through.

"Is there something in particular that we're looking for?" John asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but when he turned to look at John, his mouth shut and his jaw clenched. His eyes were focused on something past John's right shoulder. A familiar sing-song voice called out to them.

"Sherlock. You came." John turned around to find the man in the Westwood suit standing in the doorway. He slammed the door shut with a sudden hard flick of the wrist. John jumped at the unexpected power behind it. "I was afraid you wouldn't show."

John looked between Sherlock and the man in the Westwood suit. Years worth of history was in the air. The man was confident, but seemed detached. His eyes were void of emotion. Sherlock was trying to act calm and collected, but John could tell that he was upset at himself for having fallen for this trap.

The man in the Westwood suit glanced over at John and smiled. "Oh...you didn't tell me you got a dog." Sherlock bristled. "It must be nice to have a pet."

"Don't even speak about him," Sherlock spat.

The man's eyes widened. "Oh, you like this one," he said. "What is it about him, exactly?"

"What do you want, Moriarty?"

"I have a little offer for you, Sherlock. You see, I thought I had killed you back in London...again. Imagine my surprise when I heard that you had reappeared. Tell me...where is the spring?"

Everyone in the room stood stock-still. John wasn't sure anyone was even breathing.

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, don't play dumb with me, Sherlock. You know me better than that. I know things. I'm going to find it. I can buy this land for development easy-peasy. Don’t doubt that. It’s just a matter of time. Now, we can do this the easy way. You could tell me where the spring is, and we could benefit from it together."

"Why on earth would he do that?" John asked. Moriarty turned to him as if he had forgotten about John's existence. "He's obviously been hiding this from you for years. Why would you think you can just come here and ask nicely and have him cooperate?"

Moriarty smiled. "Excellent question, pet." He pulled a gun from his jacket and pointed it at John. Sherlock blanched. His eyes went straight to the tiny red laser positioned on John's forehead.

"Now Sherlock, tell me. Where is the spring?"

John was ready to laugh. This was absolutely ridiculous. One life being threatened in favour of millions. He turned to Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were wide, and all the colour had left his face. His fingertips were shaking slightly, and he was taking quick breaths through his mouth. John's heart sank. He thought back to what Mycroft had told him at the pond: _it at once confuses and terrifies him_.

Moriarty walked towards John slowly. "I'm waiting for an answer, Sherlock. My trigger finger is feeling particularly twitchy today."

“Why are you doing this?”

"For you, of course. To see you like this. I like to see you dance, Sherlock. You dance so prettily.”

“You have no interest in eternal life? I find that hard to believe. At the very least, your friend Moran must be interested."

Moriarty shook his head. "Moran is not a friend with whom I share my secrets. Moran is a mercenary. He isn't interested in much besides the fact that I pay him handsomely for his services. I should add, by the way, that plans are in place for him to be richly rewarded for your deaths, should you attempt to kill me."

Moriarty walked straight up to John and brushed the muzzle of the gun into his hair. The metal was cold as it ran across John's scalp, and pressed into his temple. The sun had sunk below the horizon, but its heat still lingered in the summer air. A bead of sweat trickled down John's face.

“What would you do if he were really injured?” Moriarty asked. His eyes flickered over to Sherlock. He slid the gun down John's face, and against his neck. “What if my finger just happened to slip? If I nicked him somewhere vital...would you give him a drink, Sherlock? Would you let him live forever?”

"That's the difference between you and I," said Sherlock. "You see the spring as a boon, whereas I know it to be a curse."

Moriarty shrugged. "It's true. Eternal life isn't a gift for everyone." He turned to look at John. "Imagine if your sister could live forever. Why, she'd never be able to drink herself to death."

John forgot for a moment about the gun. He clenched his hand into a fist and swung for Moriarty, just narrowly missing his stomach. Moriarty was small and fast. He twisted and grabbed for John, getting him in a headlock. As John struggled, Moriarty placed the gun right up against the side of John's chest. He shot, the bullet grazing John's skin, making a hole in his shirt and burning him with the explosion. John fell still, and Moriarty pressed the gun solidly to John's temple once more. Sherlock's eyes were closed, his lips pressed together so tightly, they had lost all colour.

"That was a close one, wasn't it, Sherlock? Now answer my question. If I had hurt him a little bit more...if he were bleeding out on the ground right now...would you make him drink from that tiny vial you have in your pocket?"

Sherlock's voice was soft and low. "I wouldn't make John do anything."

“Oh Sherlock, don't be silly. I know you. You’re selfish. You don’t give up your possessions.”

Sherlock looked over at John. His gaze completely ignored the gun pressed to John's head. He looked right into John's eyes.

"It's John's decision whether or not to drink. I wouldn't force him into it, and I wouldn't stop him if he wanted to."

"Why wouldn't he want to?" Moriarty asked, amused. "An eternal life together. Doesn't that sound desirable?"

Sherlock kept his eyes on John. "Immortality is not something to be taken lightly. We would constantly be moving. We would constantly be creating new lives for ourselves. Watching everyone around us grow old and die. I don't usually have trouble distancing myself from others, but John...John would grow close to people, only to have to leave them. There would be no end. To be immortal is to be surrounded by death, and unable to taste it. That would destroy him." Sherlock swallowed. "John has too much here to live for. His job needs him, his sister needs him. He's the only person I trust to protect the spring. The people of this town need someone to look after them, and John is that person."

Moriarty's gun slid down John's body, resting just over his heart. "You love him, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes slid closed. He took a deep breath, then opened his eyes again. His voice was hardened steel.

"Let him go.”

“Or what? What will you do to me?”

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial of water. Moriarty’s eyes glimmered, and for just a second, his grip on the gun loosened. As soon as John saw the tension leave Moriarty's hand, he made his move. He elbowed Moriarty sharply in the stomach, then grabbed his wrist, twisting it around and causing him to drop the gun. Moriarty snarled as John pushed him to the ground, pinning him with one knee to Moriarty’s back.

"He has you well trained," Moriarty purred. John pushed his knee in harder. As Sherlock came closer, John reached out to grab the gun. His hold on Moriarty slipped, and Moriarty suddenly twisted free. He pushed John back, and they struggled on the ground, both reaching for the gun. John saw Sherlock frozen in place, his hands outstretched as if he didn't know what to do without making matters worse. Moriarty was a flurry of movement. John felt metal in his hand, then in Moriarty's hand. They struggled with each other, twisting and turning until finally, a shot rang out. Both bodies lay still. The room was completely silent until Sherlock whispered John's name in a short sob.

John raised his head, his ears ringing. Sherlock ran to him and pulled him backwards, harshly. He looked quickly back and forth from Moriarty to John. John's eyes were wide. He couldn't stop staring at Moriarty's lifeless body, deep scarlet blood beginning to seep out from underneath. Finally, he realized that Sherlock was speaking to him.

"John! Are you alright? John!" Sherlock's hands ran over John's body, frantically. He cupped John's face in his hands.

"He's gone," John whispered, his eyes refocusing on Sherlock. "He's gone."

Sherlock stared at him, then kissed him hard. He pulled John to his feet and started laughing hysterically. John held tightly to Sherlock's hand as Sherlock took out his phone and dialled the first number on his speed dial.

"Mycroft, I need your help."

John didn't hear the rest of the conversation. Sherlock was squeezing the life out of his hand. John was staring at Moriarty's body.

The oppressive heat finally burst in a clap of thunder. A flash of lightning lit the sky just as Sherlock hung up the phone pulled John out the door. They laughed together, overcome with the relief of escape and victory. Thunder rumbled, and the wind began to howl around them.

They hadn't even reached the bottom of the front steps when Sherlock paused again and pulled John into a kiss. John took a step backwards with the sheer force of it, then pushed Sherlock against the side of the building just as the rain began. A clap of thunder sounded, the rain skipping over drizzle and starting right off with a downpour. Sherlock pulled away to look up at the sky. Raindrops clung to his curls and eyelashes. Something twinged in John’s chest at the sight.

“We have to leave,” he whispered, urgently. He took both of Sherlock’s hands in his and kissed them, quickly. “We have to go before anyone finds us here.”

Sherlock nodded and looked to the woods. They burst into a run.

 

  ---

Shooting through the undergrowth, Sherlock lead John down a path that he had never noticed before. It was dark and winding, but Sherlock seemed to know where he was going even with the limited light. The leaves above interlocked so closely that they were almost sheltered from the rain. The cool wet of the storm was a welcome respite from the hot late-August air.

“Where are we going?” asked John, breathlessly.

Sherlock turned, tugged John’s hand to draw him closer, and kissed him hard. He didn’t answer the question when they parted, just looked at John, his pupils visibly expanding as he squeezed John’s hand tighter and pulled him along. John’s heart thumped hard in his chest, and he followed without question.

Another flash of lightning lit the sky above them, and John began to get nervous about running through the woods in the middle of a storm. Thunder rumbled through the sky as they burst into a clearing. They had arrived at the grassy meadow overlooking London.

“How on earth did we get here?” John asked.

“Shortcut.” Sherlock led John toward the tree near the cliffside. The city glittered in front of them, lights flickering, lighting the clouds in the stormy sky. The Eye was a bright red circle. John only had a second to admire it before Sherlock shoved him against the tree and attacked his mouth. John kissed back for half a moment before giggling, slightly stunned and overwhelmed by Sherlock's enthusiasm. Sherlock pulled back to look at him.

"Okay?" he asked. His face was flushed, not entirely from exertion.

John laughed again and pulled him closer. "Come back here."

Sherlock tasted like rainwater. His face and lips were cold from the night air, but his tongue was startlingly hot. John slid both arms under Sherlock's coat, running his hands up and down over Sherlock's back in a continuous effort to crush him closer. The canopy of the tree sheltered them from the rain, though their clothes still felt heavy and damp, slightly too uncomfortable. John was eager to get out of them. He took off his jacket as they kissed, and tossed it to the ground.

Sherlock pulled John’s collar aside and sucked raindrops from the crook of his neck, causing John to shiver. He unbuttoned John's shirt quickly, tugging it off his shoulders and throwing it to the side. John's tags clattered against his chest. He felt electrified, as if the lightning from the storm had exited the clouds and sunk just beneath his skin. Sherlock touched him as though he were trying to memorize every wrinkle and blemish. His hands paused over the scar on John's shoulder, rubbing over it repeatedly, trying to erase it with his fingertips.

"I want to see you," John murmured against Sherlock's skin. He unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt, sucking strong kisses to his collarbone where it was exposed.

Sherlock gasped as if he were just remembering something. "They won't bruise," he said.

"What?"

"They won't bruise." Sherlock put his fingers to the spot that John had been kissing. "I want to...I want you to mark me, but I don't—I can't—"

John pressed a finger to Sherlock’s lips.

"Shhh..." he whispered.

"I want physical evidence," Sherlock muttered.

John smiled and pulled off Sherlock's coat, spreading it on the ground over a patch of lush grass. "Well you'll just have to settle for really great sex hair." He ran his hand backwards through Sherlock's hair and was rewarded with a low moan. He brought Sherlock's hand up to his lips and unbuttoned his cuff, then kissed the inside of his wrist.

The rain had begun to slow. The waxing crescent moon was now visible as a bright blur behind the storm clouds. Sherlock made a tiny sound in the back of his throat at the feeling of John's lips over his pulse point. He sank to his knees and took John's hands, pulling John down with him. A last rumble of thunder drifted through the clouds. Sherlock laid back and pressed his hips into John's as they kissed.

"Can I touch you?" John asked, his voice rough. "I want to touch you."

"Please," Sherlock answered. He pulled John into another kiss. "Please."

Sherlock's cock twitched under the fabric of his pants, and John wondered briefly when Sherlock had last been with someone. Sherlock gasped when John's hand wrapped around him. He arched his hips up like a cat.

"You're gorgeous," John murmured. His own trousers were becoming very uncomfortable, very quickly. Sherlock noticed. He reached down to rub John's erection through the fabric. John's eyes slid shut briefly.

“Take them off,” Sherlock growled, his fingers teasing at John’s zipper. His voice was becoming deep and breathless. John pulled his pants and trousers down to his knees, then lay down against Sherlock. He thrust against him in a battle for heat and friction.

The feeling of rutting against Sherlock was far more arousing than it should have been. The small, desperate sounds that Sherlock was making brought John dangerously close to orgasm. When he felt himself at the edge, he pulled back, sitting up and taking deep breaths. Sherlock looked up at him, a flush over his face and neck.

"I can't...not yet," John whispered. "I want this to last much longer."

Sherlock reached down and brushed his thumb over John's lower lip. John kissed it, then took it into his mouth, sucking gently at the tip. Sherlock’s eyes were heavy and hooded. When John took Sherlock's thumb deeper into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, Sherlock's eyes unfocused, and his breath hitched.

John pulled back with a smile. "You like that?" he asked. Sherlock didn't answer, just pulled him down for a long, languid kiss. John kissed a line down Sherlock's chest, over either side of his hips, then nuzzled over Sherlock's prominent hipbone before taking his cock into his mouth.

Sherlock gave a short cry and John felt him tense with the effort to keep his hips in place. Both his hands ran through John's hair and stroked over his neck. He didn't pull John closer, just kept touching him as if he were touching fur or silk.

John felt obscenely turned on just from sucking Sherlock. When Sherlock began to give short cries with every bob of John's head, John brought one hand down to stroke himself. Sherlock saw, and choked out John's name in a warning, his whole body tensing. When John looked up at him, Sherlock came with a low moan. John swallowed around him. He felt delirious, light-headed with desire. His hand moved rapidly over his cock.

Sherlock lay still, eyes closed as he tried to catch his breath. His skin was damp with sweat and rain, his hair clinging to his forehead in wet ringlets. He lifted his head and pulled John down by his tags. Sherlock replaced John's hand with his own, and they kissed as John thrust into Sherlock's fist.

The rain had stopped and the thunder was gone. John's world suddenly exploded with a light brighter than any lightning bolt. He gasped Sherlock's name over and over as Sherlock left kisses against his temple. He slumped down, both their bodies flushed and overheated. A warm wind leftover from the storm drifted across their skin. John opened his eyes and looked to the side, seeing wild amaranth growing like a weed just at the edge of the cliffside.

It took John a few moments before he realized that Sherlock was speaking. He was whispering into John’s neck, eyes closed, brow furrowed.

“I don’t want you to die.”

John looked down at Sherlock and kissed him silent, smoothing a thumb over his cheek and whispering back against Sherlock’s mouth,

“I love you.” He kissed Sherlock again. “I love you.”

 

 ---

Sherlock received a text as the sky began to lighten.

_30 Aug_  
 _6:03_  
 _Meet me at the train station.  7:00_

He tensed underneath John's body. The clouds parted as the sun rose.

 

 ---

The train station was almost empty. Mycroft stood on the platform with two large suitcases. He looked up from his phone as Sherlock and John neared, glancing down at their entwined hands, then up at Sherlock's hair.

"It leaves in ten minutes," he said. He reached out to shake John's hand. "I trust you'll keep our secret safe?"

John nodded. "I swear it."

Mycroft pursed his lips, looking into John's eyes. "I'm sorry," he murmured. He glanced at Sherlock again before stepping onto the train, taking the suitcases with him.

When they were alone, John noticed that Sherlock was trembling.

"Hey, hey," he said. "It's alright. It'll be alright." Sherlock turned to him. His eyes were dry, but that did nothing to hide his pain. John pulled him in, and they clung together tightly.

"We'll talk," said John, attempting to convince both of them. "We'll text. Modern technology, yeah? We can phone and we can video chat. We can e-mail. You'll come back in the future, won't you? We'll see each other again?"

Sherlock nodded, fiercely. "I'll come back. I don't know when or for how long, but I'll come back."

"So this isn't goodbye. Not really."

Sherlock looked down at the ground. "I'll find Moran. I'll find him, and I'll kill him, and you'll be safe."

"And I'll protect the spring. No one will ever discover its secret, as long as I live."

John tipped Sherlock's face back up and kissed him deeply. When they parted, he pulled the tags from around his neck and looped them around Sherlock’s.

“Take these with you,” he said. “Something to remember me by.”

Sherlock clutched the tags in one hand. “I won’t ever forget you,” he said. He reached into his pocket, and pressed a glass vial into John’s hand. It was nothing special: small, insignificant, average-looking, filled to the top with water. John didn’t need Sherlock to explain what it was.

“Keep it with you. In case you ever need it,” Sherlock said. John nodded. They didn’t meet each others’ eyes.

Sherlock held tightly to the tags around his neck. John slid the vial into his pocket. The conductor called out for last-minute passengers. They looked up at the same time.

“Stay safe,” John whispered.

“I can’t die.”

“I know, but...”

Sherlock took John’s hand and brought it to his lips. “I’ll come back.”

When they kissed again, it was a finality. Sherlock looked at John, and closed his eyes. His thumb rubbed methodically over the metal of the tags. John watched as Sherlock walked towards the train, his head bowed. He didn't turn back. The conductor ushered him in, and closed the door behind him.

The train whistled and let off a burst of steam.

John felt hollow.


	5. Chapter 5

8 August, 2022  
age 47  
  
 _“You're still as beautiful as the day I met you.”_  
  
 _"I look exactly the same as the day you met me."_  
  
 _“Our age difference is getting to be a bit much, don’t you think?”_  
  
 _“Oh, it always was.”_  
  
 _“How long can you stay?”_  
  
 _“One week.  And Mycroft won’t let me leave the house.  I can’t be seen.”_  
  
 _“That’s alright.  I won’t give you a chance to leave the bedroom.”_  
  
 _“What about the sofa?  The kitchen table?”_  
  
 _“...You’re still wearing my tags.”_  
  
 _“Of course I am.”_  


\---

  
  
14 August, 2035  
age 60  
  
 _“How long can you stay?”_  
  
 _“Not long.  Just three days.”_  
  
 _“...”_  
  
 _“John, I want you to marry her.”_  
  
 _“I...”_  
  
 _“It’s alright.  I don’t want you to be alone.”_  
  
 _“...She’s dying.”_  
  
 _“I know.  Keep her company.  You care for her.”_  
  
 _“I love you.”_  
  
 _“You love both of us.  Marry her.”_

  
\---

  
14 August, 2050  
age 75  
  
 _“Please...please don’t forget me.”_  
  
 _“Never.  I won’t.  Never, never.”_

  
\---

  
The soil in the cemetery was bone dry.  Not unusual, for August.  Sherlock looked down at the simple granite stone in front of him.  
  
 _In Loving Memory_  
 _John H. Watson_  
 _Doctor, Soldier, Husband_  
 _1975-2058_  
  
Sherlock heard Mycroft's footsteps behind him.  
  
"I spoke to someone at the library," Mycroft said, gently.  "There was a storm last year.  A tree caught fire, and caused extensive damage to the woods.  They had to bulldoze the area.  The stream is gone."  
  
Sherlock's shoulders felt lighter.  He kept his eyes fixed on John's stone.  
  
"He's been gone for two years."  
  
Mycroft cleared his throat.  "You knew this would happen," he said.  "You knew he wasn't staying."  
  
Sherlock didn't turn around.  He walked past the stone, brushing his hand over the top as he passed.  He headed toward a familiar dirt road.  Mycroft didn't follow.

  
\---

  
The meadow had only slightly changed.  Others had discovered the spot, as evidenced by the tire marks in the dirt.  There was a pair of children's shoes forgotten by the side of the road, and a plastic water bottle lay in a nearby blueberry bush.  
  
Sherlock walked up to the tree, resting his palm against it as he looked down over London.  The city was bigger, taller, and more colourful.  Probably brighter at night.  He could still see the Eye.  
  
Sherlock loosened his scarf and pulled a chain out from underneath his shirt.  He took off one of John's tags and slid the other back under his collar, letting it hang where it had for almost fifty years, against his chest.  He gripped the loose tag tightly in his hand, then reached high up in the tree and placed it inside a hollow in the trunk, where it could overlook the city.  
  
The sky was a clear solid blue.  The sun hung heavy among wisps of cloud.  
  
It wasn't right.  It should have been raining.

  
\---

  
_"I believe I've developed an antidote."_  
  
 _"Are you certain?"_  
  
 _"Animal testing was successful."_  
  
 _"Well...Together, then?"_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Everlasting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/699645) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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